


Θεοφάνεια

by PomoneCorse



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Brought to You by Spite at Fanon Interpretation, Bunker Ending, F/M, Hate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 15:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomoneCorse/pseuds/PomoneCorse
Summary: She knew he hated this, hated her - stomach tense under her splayed-out hands, scowling lines at his eyes and mouth ugly things in the light. He grabbed at her wrists, trying to flip them over.And that was fine: she hated him just as much.





	Θεοφάνεια

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't read what you want, write it, and then share your shame with the world.  
> Dedicated to the five other people who ship this Cursed Ship.
> 
> Though this is referencing events in my actual longfic Apokalupsis, this is more of a "what-if", self-indulgent piece. Similar to a director's cut, if you will.
> 
>  
> 
> Θεοφάνεια: Theofáneia, Epiphany.

Joseph Seed was not a gentle man. Underneath the veneer of the caring guide lay  _ rot _ and  _ decay _ and  _ death _ . He touched Dahlia's arm by accident when handing her the dry laundry and her blood froze; he reached for her during one of his sermons and she scrambled away on the couch to seek refuge into the maintenance manuals.

He towered backlit in the doorway, like the reaper come at last, and she tugged him down to her level, moving too fast for either surprise or disdain to rise to the surface.

He was not a gentle man, and she knew it.

She was no gentle woman either; he knew it too.

He grabbed her arms far too harshly - she was going to bruise, garish handprints in the morning. Something to match how she felt on the inside. She bit at his lips, skin breaking under her teeth, iron in her mouth, and refused to think about  _ why _ or  _ what _ or  _ who _ . 

Dahlia closed her eyes. This wasn't giving in, she told herself. This was another power struggle.

Words may have passed between them both, but in truth she could not care what they were.

She sat on the armrest, Joseph looming like a half-dressed scarecrow between her knees, holding her in place. The leather creaked beneath them, old and warm against her bare legs; his own chest heated over her too-large shirt.

Skin and loose hair wet from a quick shower; borrowed sweatpants clinging awkwardly to his too tall frame; he covered her easily.

Her hands trailed to the scars on his torso, grooves and bumps a map in the dark. With what was left of her rapidly disappearing clarity, Dahlia thought of how much she wanted to forget. To lose herself in something rough and fast and- she almost jumped out of her skin.   
Joseph’s hands had moved to her face, rough and vice-like, keeping her close, rosary beads painful in his grip.   
Something fast, yes. Raw and crude enough to not have to think about everything that had led to this moment; her heart, her head, the fire in her belly a terrible carnivorous creature threatening to consume all she was.    
She felt his touch grow less focused, more hesitant, as her hands grazed his stomach - no, doubt wouldn't do at all now.   
She licked the blood from his split lip, one hand slipping at last over the Lust carved into his flesh and beneath the waistband.

He groaned against her mouth, palms still clamped on her face, as her fingers cupped him at last.

He was half hard already. For a moment her fingers traced along its length, exploring. 

She took her hand out, pausing in-between open-mouthed, ravenous kisses to lick at her palm; she curled her spit-slick fingers around his shaft, thumb bending with the steady pull of her arm. It wasn’t long before he was fully hard, straining in her grasp.

One of his thighs came up between hers, muscles tense and heavy against her. Heat pooled low in her gut at the pressure, a need for contact and warmth and someone else overwhelming in her blood.

Even her pulse seemed to radiate from that contact, a dull throbbing in her clit, yearning spreading from belly to chest, that feeling of want worse. Distantly she thought that this was very much a mistake. But then again, she couldn't find it in herself to care.

His mouth moved to the edge of her jaw, down her throat, lingering at the pulse point where neck met collarbone.

Truth be told - and here in the dark there was only that, wordless acts tearing out lies piece by bloody piece - she hated his eyes. She was glad his face had moved away, would have balked at the intimacy it would have brought.

Her free hand reached out to the nape of his neck, the other working at him in between them. His mouth was more and more insistent on her skin, mirroring her touch, body pressing closer, until she almost lost her balance on the armrest.

So when Dahlia slid backwards on the couch, he tumbled after, still holding onto her face. 

The angle at which her knees bent was uncomfortable, and she scrambled out from under him, blood rushing in her ears in time with uncharacteristic hunger.

There was only just enough space on the couch for them to sit facing each other. She must have elbowed him twice as they both shrugged her out of her shirt; he returned the favor by near falling on top of her again when he slipped out of his pants.

The twin carvings of Lust sure made a lot of sense, she idly thought, as he tugged her close on his lap. Peeling off her shorts to press his hand up and up to the apex of her thighs; his thumb slipping between her folds to circle her clit, index sliding into her at an angle. She barely stopped herself from sighing at the touch, his breath too warm on her cheek, hips bucking up, her own hands reaching down to steady herself on his bare thighs.

There were scars there, too. 

For several heartbeats she perceived his breaths as her own, pained and shattered in her chest. There was only her, and his hand, and the chaos she felt inside; the way she clung to havoc’s own hips.

Pressure building at the base of her spine, Dahlia rocked forward, eyes closed, mind lost in the hazy pursuit of gratification. His mouth, covetous and angry at her throat, brought the realization she’d thrown her head back, his free hand caught in her hair.

The contrasting feelings of his teeth at her skin and his fingers deep within, the shivering and ever-closer edge turned her breaths to sharp inhales, shaky sighs.

 

She reveled in that thrilling pleasure.

His hand retreated to her thigh, holding her in place when she ground down, an half-angry, half-irate sound coming from her chest at the loss. Legs aching, she pulled herself up by his shoulders as he raised her up; deliberately refusing to look at him as he lined them up, the stretch of him electric. Slowly, bracing herself on the couch cushions, she lowered herself to straddle him.

They sat with their hips flush together until Joseph leaned back. She stared down at him, taking in the sight of flushed skin. Neither of them moved any further. The feeling wasn’t painful, or unpleasant, but something vulnerable in the stretch of her muscles smothered the urgency she’d felt before.  His hands rose to clutch her thighs, thumbs tracing the bullet scars and faint stretch marks. The motion shifted her body forward, and Dahlia tipped back instinctively, her own hands reaching for his stomach.The sensation of rolling muscles breathed fire anew, something boiling and fuming deep within; she chased it with her own lifting motion.

Joseph secured her waist, hands too hot on her skin. Trying to direct her, to set the pace he wanted to lose himself in, she realized with another quick bearing down of her hips. He must have needed to let go. So did she, but this she couldn’t allow. He didn't deserve to forget; to leave behind the guilt even for an instant.

She forced herself to slow down, her hips’ rolling pattern near languid, too much even for her.

“What's the - _ ah _ \- matter?” She jeered at his grunt of protest. “Too quiet? Don't wanna-" she hissed with another roll, “-hear yourself think?”

Dahlia knew Joseph hated it, hated her - his stomach tense under her splayed-out hands, scowling lines at his eyes and mouth ugly things in the light. He grabbed at her wrists, trying to flip them over.

And that was fine: she hated him just as much.

They struggled, tangled uncomfortably on the couch, bodies moving erratically in an attempt to set each’s own rhythm, chest to chest; hands prodding, pushing away and holding the other closer, unwilling to let one another speak.

 

This went on unsatisfyingly for what seemed an eternity until he pulled at her hair, still hilt-deep, and with what seemed one smooth move pushed her down on her back. Dahlia held on as she could, heels coming up to dig at his lower back. He started thrusting again, with a bitter, hateful expression she knew was reflected on her own face, gaze darting over their bodies. One of her hands clawed at his chest for purchase; the other pulling the hair at the nape of his neck. His were still grasping her hair

“Why do you still fight, Hargen?” He mouthed with a voice rougher than she’d heard before at her ear, at the apogee of stroke. “Scornful even now, as you take me-”

She interrupted with a second bite to his lips, trying to break the skin once more; felt him shudder as the taste of metal filled her mouth, and then his right hand gripped her thigh. The burn in her muscles as he brought the leg up over his shoulder was uncomfortable, the angle with which he now fucked her obscene in its intimacy. 

She hated him for that, too. 

Her nails left angry red trails on his back, not deep enough to gouge, to break the skin - though she did try. He leaned over to force her back to the leather cushion, mouth seeking hers, pushing her down harshly, every stroke setting a punishing pace.

She grabbed at his hair, strands sticking out every which way, at his back, scars and brands rough under her greedy fingers. There was no love, no meeting of the minds or hearts there. Just an angry, dirty struggle.

“How long,” Dahlia said between shaky breaths, “have you wanted this, Joseph?”

“Vanity will get-"

“A week? A month? Or are you so weak-" his hands holding her dug in so roughly she stuttered, ”- so weak I just had to touch you?”

His answer couldn't be described as a kiss - too rough, too needy - but one moment he was panting at her ear, the next he was devouring her, tongue and teeth and breath mingling to the point she lost track of where he began and she ended.

With intense loathing and a sudden sharp thrust, rough fingers on her clit, she saw stars. She forgot herself enough to whine his name as he kept going, hips now desperately snapping to hers; no regard for how over sensitive she might feel. The couch was warm under the skin of her back, and she let go. Just for a bit.

She would not remember her circumstances - tried to forget the deep running undercurrent of loneliness, bitterness. Forget the misery thrumming under her skin for days, for weeks.

Here and now, Joseph’s weight and heat and  _ hate _ anchors amidst her heartache.

Weary arms around his neck, Dahlia clung to his moving form.

For a few more moments she stopped thinking; focused on the feel of skin against skin, the ache inside, the pleasure, the contact. No tenderness, only the merciless evidence of someone else alive and close and holding her; the drag of his cock over and over against her walls, the clench of her muscles around him; the warmth of another body in and out to a selfish rhythm.

She tried to speak - to taunt him again, maybe - but this time he caught her lips in a harsh kiss before she could say anything. Inflamed, she returned it just as roughly as she pulled at his hair with one hand, dragging the other's nails down his back; unsure of anything but wanting to make him hurt.

  
Joseph pulled out with a wordless cry, spending himself on her stomach, torso crashing down over her. In the dark, without his gaze directly on her, it was easier to face the facts: the sudden fire in her chest, the way his head hung vulnerable on her shoulder, beard rough against the over sensitive skin of her collarbone, their chests close together and arms tangled in what was almost an embrace.

And yet Dahlia saw an opportunity to twist the proverbial knife. With shaking hands she brought his head nearer, turning hers to face him; to lay her forehead against his: a twisted version of what she had seen him do with his siblings. 

She couldn't say if this was yet another barb on her end, but with their bodies pressed as they were she could feel his breathing speed up at the touch, quick and angry; had no idea whose heart was beating like Hell’s own drums. Might as well be both, too close for comfort.

There was no space on the couch for the two of them to lie down comfortably as the sweat cooled off - but Dahlia would be damned if she ceded even half an inch. Ever again. Joseph must have felt the same: he made no move to leave, cloudy eyes unblinking, half-lying atop her.

Boneless, she rolled to her side - hoping the move would make him fall off the couch - to grab her forgotten shirt hanging off the armrest and wipe at her belly. He simply slid next to her, limbs loose on the leather headrest. 

This meant that they now lay facing each other, almost close enough for their noses to touch. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off their bodies. Close enough for Joseph’s quiet words to be inescapable. She was exhausted, she realized. Lassitude heavy in her bones, weariness at herself and how she acted replacing short-lived satisfaction.

“You must see,” Joseph drawled, Georgian accent audible, “you must understand- how can you keep refusing reason and my help, all consumed by the sin permeating your life, your soul? It eats away at everything good in you.”

“Strong words,” she sneered, fighting with herself not to roll over and face the cushions, “from the man who seconds ago was screwing me into this couch. But you're a hell of a hypocrite, aren't you?”   
The hand at her waist tightened painfully. Funny, she hadn't realized it was there. In her sleep-addled state she relished the warmth to contrast the chill of the room.   
“You reached for me, Hargen. You wanted comfort, and I gave it freely. Surely you won't deny even that.”   
“What I wanted is irrelevant-"   
“Is it? Aren't you tired of all this anger, this loneliness of your own making? Don't you want to be free of the pain you impose on yourself?”   
“Seems like you should be asking yourself the same thing. You reached back.”   
Through heavy lids she saw his face twist in anger. She couldn't resist throwing his words back at him, even as sleep stole her away.   
“Didn't you say we were each other’s mirror?”

The answering look of hatred was so reassuring it kept her warm through the night.


End file.
